


harry potter on zombie island

by epanouiii



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Alternate Universe - Muggle, Dark, Dark Fantasy, Death, F/M, Gaslighting, Gen, Inspired by Scooby Doo, M/M, Magical Realism, Manipulation, Scooby Doo On Zombie Island - Freeform, Southern Tom Riddle, Symbolism, Unreliable Narrator, give me cowboy tom riddle!!, its subtle in places and overt in others, why is this not a tag??
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-11-21
Updated: 2021-01-10
Packaged: 2021-03-09 23:01:00
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 9,290
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27653785
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/epanouiii/pseuds/epanouiii
Summary: He finds himself in front of an ashy, marble fireplace, staring at a portrait.In it, he can see four people, all dressed in white. A red-haired woman smiling, a man with his arm curled around her waist, another man whose watchful eyes glitter like rubies, and a woman, her curls bound and black as night. They are standing around a fire that, even as Harry rubs his eyes beneath his frames, seems to flicker dangerously in the portrait frame, the flames licking their vulnerable faces.And in those faces, he sees a reflection of his present. “Mr Riddle?” He calls, and their host walks towards him, his gait unworried and relaxed. He passes by a window, and the sun highlights his timeless sort of handsomeness, like Mr Riddle could be both twenty five and fifty. Then he comes to stand by Harry, and his muscles seize as Mr Riddle’s arm brushes his own.“Please, Harry, call me Tom.”“Tom. Why do those people look like us?”~Alternatively, Harry descends into madness.
Relationships: Harry Potter/Tom Riddle | Voldemort, Hermione Granger & Harry Potter & Ron Weasley, Minor or Background Relationship(s), pre-relationship Harry Potter/Ginny Weasley
Comments: 14
Kudos: 29





	1. o, mysterious stranger

**Author's Note:**

> so--do not be deceived by the idea, this is a whole lot darker than it seems. ik,, it's based on a scooby doo movie how bad can it be? but in defence of myself and this fic, that movie is the scariest one to date. i just take it to a whole new level. seriously tho harry deals w some pretty intense shit and is basically gaslit this entire fic
> 
> if i were to sum this fic up in under ten words, id say it's a ‘harry runs away from his problems’ au lmao there's a lot of stuff regarding this idea, a little too much imo
> 
> all u rlly need to know abt this fic is that it's set in louisiana and everyone is around their mid-late twenties. oh also they're all muggles and don't believe in magic (for the most part)
> 
> have fun!
> 
> update: i have myself a beta! their names is mars they're amazing, so thank them for making my trash writing decipherable 
> 
> tw will be in end notes of each chapter

Hermione and Ron are arguing again. 

They're in the front of the van, Ron driving and Hermione giving directions. There had been a struggle to decide who would be doing the driving at the last stop, and, after many instances that he wouldn't get them lost, Ron won. If Harry can call being berated _winning_. 

Neville is taking a nap, his head submerged by a pillow embroidered with flowers—curling snapdragons and daisies and rhododendrons—willfully and happily ignorant to the arguing happening right in front of them. Ginny, too, is ignoring them, her ears blocked by a pair of earphones as she stares out the dark window. They're on opposite sides of the van; she's so far away. Harry's hand lies limp on the long seat stretching across the left side of the van and, even though he knows she wouldn't be able to reach it, he likes giving her the option. 

"We're lost! Ron, you got us lost!”

"I know exactly where I'm going!”

"Do you really?" 

They've been going on like this for hours. It's on and off, every time they switch positions it happens. They argue about who the better driver is, the better navigator, the better anything. It's worse than it was a few months ago. Usually, even though they'd be arguing, you'd be able to tell that they're enjoying it. The adrenaline, the challenge. Harry's never understood it, nor will he ever. 

It's why he decided to go on a trip. He thought they could all get away for a while, destress. He hadn't thought of going to America at first, but when Hermione had mentioned it in passing, he had jumped on the idea with the ferocity of a lion. He'd had the whole trip planned within the week. Admittedly, he'd enlisted the help of Hermione, but she'd been glad to, even swamped with work as she was. She'd thought it was a good idea too. 

_Look at how great it's turned out so far_ , he thinks, feeling like his eyes are about to roll out of his head after hearing the millionth 'we're lost'. He can feel a migraine forming at the base of his skull, the pounding of his blood in his skull. He presses the heel of his palms to his eyes. 

"Ron, Hermione," he hisses lowly, and to his great surprise, they stop shouting for a moment. "Could you both _please_ shut it for a minute. My head's killing me." 

His hands fall from his face into his lap, slapping against his thighs. In the rearview mirror, he can see Hermione's worried face, her hair standing up from the Lousiana heat. Never mind that it’s eight in the morning. 

Ginny's gaze burns into the side of his skull. He hates it. This trip was supposed to be _fun_. 

"Yes, of course. Sorry for the noise, Harry, we'll keep it down," she says, contrite. 

Satisfied, Harry lets the back of his head flop against the fuzzy wall of the van, and the locket under his loose shirt rattles. The interior is all warm shades of brown and white and, strangely enough, teal. He'd questioned Hermione's tastes at first, but honestly, it has a nice feel to it. 

With Hermione and Ron whispering directions between each other, Ginny gone back to her cloud-gazing and Neville dozing in the back, Harry allows himself to relax into his seat, his legs propped up on the long seat. 

He doesn't move from his spot for a while. He falls into a light drowse at one point, the woosh of the car and the buzz of conversation falling just on the side of unintelligible lulling. 

Behind his eyelids, light flashes red.

There's blackness, then a nudge on his shoulder. "Harry. Harry, we're here." 

He opens his eyes to Ginny. She’s leaning over him, her long red hair set alight by the sun. It surrounds her like a halo, golden and blazing. Behind her striking silhouette, he sees the bustle of a city and the rising sun. 

She wasn't lying.

"Yeah," Harry drawls, mind foggy. "Yeah, I can see that. Thanks for waking me." 

She grins, saying "no problem," then she’s jumping up from her spot and rushing towards the open door, her back hunched slightly to avoid the roof of the van. Neville is nowhere to be seen, his floral pillow abandoned on the sunless floor of the back. He must have woken up earlier. Shrugging, Harry puts on his shoes that he kicked off and follows her at a slower pace, his hand coming up to sift through his thick hair. 

_It needs a trim_ , he thinks, pulling at the back of it, feeling it knot in his hands. It's coarse. He lets go of it and, using his hands to support himself, his feet fall to the asphalt as he jumps. The noise is muted by the buzz of New Orleans. 

It seems Ron stopped in front of a Sunday market. He can see people selling their wares, fruits and spices and all manner of bright, exciting things. The air is scented richly with turmeric and rain. 

"Bloody hell, that was a long drive." Ron's loud voice attracts Harry's gaze, and he watches his friend as he stretches, his arms reaching high above his head. He’s inclined to agree. His muscles hurt and he wants nothing more than to fall onto a bed and sleep the day away, never mind that it's—he checks his beat-up watch—two in the afternoon and he'd taken a nap in the van. 

Out of the corner of his eye, Hermione rolls her eyes and marches towards the market, her shoulder set in a firm line beneath her red blouse. “Oh, honestly, Ron. We've been driving for the past six hours." She turns to glare at them, though Harry doesn't know what he's done personally to offend her. "Houston isn't just over the hill, you know." 

"Someone's snappy," Ginny whispers into Harry's ear as she comes to stand behind him. Her breath is warm, almost unbearable in this sticky summer heat. His ears struggle to hear her over the bustle of the town. 

"It's probably the heat," he whispers back, knocking their shoulders together. 

"Why've we stopped?" Neville asks. He's sat by the side of the van, his pale, ruddy face illuminated by the sun. He looks faint. They should probably get to their hotel soon. 

"Yeah, I was wondering that too, actually," Harry says, gripping his locket through the thin material of his shirt. "Weren't we supposed to drop by the hotel before we started exploring?" 

"Yes. But I just received a call from the staff and they informed me our rooms wouldn't be ready for another two hours," she says, positively miffed, though Harry can't blame her. He can tell Neville's trying to stifle a groan as he knocks his head against the van. Ron and Ginny just look resigned, as if they'd let out their frustration beforehand. “ _Apparently_ , there was some trouble with piping because someone flooded one of the floors." 

Harry can't help the hysterical laugh that bubbles up his throat. "You can't be serious?" 

She shoots him a look as if to say _try me_. 

"So. Due to this unprecedented chain of events, I thought it'd be a good idea if we walked around, ate something possibly." Ron lets out a little whoop at that part. _At least someone's happy about this development_. "The market has everything we need, and our things are safe inside the van, so there's nothing to worry about if we head out for a bit." 

He can see her logic, but logic won’t do anything to reduce the headache building at the base of his skull. 

Ron elects to head off first, saying he needs to eat something or else he'll die, and even as she waved him off with a weary hand, Hermione seemed keen on a tiny stall selling secondhand books on American law and politics. Ginny's gone to sit beside Neville, talking about God-knows-what. Harry stands in the same spot, people walking past him with nothing more than a glance. He wants to be them, be swallowed, consumed, by the sea of faceless people he'll never meet, never exchange pleasantries with, never know. 

But Harry can't do that in fear of Hermione setting the MI5 on him, so he settles for taking a walk. 

"I'll be back in a few." 

They wave him off as well, and so with nothing more than his wallet and his bedhead, he sets out to the market. 

He loses sight of the others almost immediately. This place is surrounded by a dense crowd, and the number of temporarily erected walls means that his vision is blocked by sweet-smelling smoke and people wearing bizarrely coloured Hawaiian shirts. It's an odd mix, to be sure, but he grew up around his Godfather—this is nothing. 

Harry walks for a while, stopping whenever a stall catches his eye. Most of them aren't very interesting, but he likes the distraction they present, so he doesn't mind too much. One man sells him a chicken kebab for a dollar—"you look foreign," he says after Harry speaks with his very British accent— and a woman wearing a kaleidoscope dress offers him a palm reading for the name of his second child and a twenty. He declines, trying to laugh it off, as he ducks behind the nearest booth as quickly as possible. 

Nothing else much happens, all these people floating past Harry without him even noticing. It isn't until he gets to the edge of the market, surely a fair distance away from where he started, that he sees a booth that piques his interest. 

It's an old woman selling jewellery, which, normally, wouldn't catch his eye. The only piece of jewellery he wears is his locket, and that was passed down to him by his father, and his father's father, and all their fathers—and mothers—before them. Sirius used to say his dad never took it off like he was glued to the thing, and Harry hasn't found a reason to act any different. It's hung over his heart for over ten years since he was eleven and had been introduced to his mysterious uncles, Sirius Black and Remus Lupin. They gave the locket and imparted its importance to Harry. It's the only piece of jewellery he's ever been interested in owning. 

So why Harry is so captured by this woman and her baubles—he doesn't know. "Hello, young man," she says delicately as Harry approaches. Much like her voice, her limbs look weak, frail, as if they'd break if the wind changed direction. But the glint in her grey, milky eyes... it's possessing. He can no longer hear the sounds of the marketplace, their yelling and hollering lost to the wind. "Are you looking to buy anything?" 

"Er, I was just curious and decided I'd have a look." Best not clue her in about his interest. Those milky eyes are shark-like, hungry, and if she smells blood in the water she will rob him blind, he's sure of it.

"Well, then, by all means." She spreads her arms out, her long, heavy sleeves dragging over the glass cases where the jewellery rests. 

There’s a lot to look at, Harry realises as he dutifully ignores her shifty looks. Rings, necklaces, bracelets—even a glass rabbit that sits on a little black pillow, see-through and fragile. But what really gets Harry's attention is a ring, sitting innocuously in a dusty velvet case. It's surrounded by other plenty gaudy things, but for some reason it's this one that causes his eye to drift away from a selection of colourful, handmade friendship bracelets on display. 

It’s old, silver and the ruby that it holds is as big as Harry's thumb. It looks about his size too. "Would you mind terribly if I looked at that one?” He asks, pointing to it, not trying to seem too interested. It doesn't seem to work, however, because the old woman smirks as she moves to pluck it from its case. 

“ _Voilà_." 

She drops it into Harry's palm and, instinctively, his fingers curl around it like ivy. The silver and ruby peek out from behind his brown fingers. Harry finds himself admiring the contrast as he opens his hand and picks it up with his other, bringing it closer to his face. 

The design of the lacing around the band is intricate, as small symbols interconnect and weave throughout one another, lines dragging and shifting and looping. They come up in the shape of a crown, or possibly a hand, wherein rests the ruby. A beam of light has pierced through the tarp sheltering their heads, and the jewel gleams from its place on his middle finger.

He doesn’t recall ever putting it on. 

"A perfect fit," the old woman croons, though the knuckle of Harry's middle finger aches as if he'd had to use force to squeeze it past. He shoots her a wry smile anyway. "I'm very glad." 

The statements strikes him as odd. It would sound perfectly fine coming from one of his friends like Ginny, but he’s never met this woman. He’d remember a person like her, surely, someone eerie and knarled with time. Their voice like the dying.

”Why?” 

She grins wickedly. ”Well, I've been holding onto that ring for many years. No one who has tried it on has become it quite as you have. Yes, indeed, I believe you will find it a worthy addition to your collection." 

Harry's left hand comes up to grip his locket again, and the metals make a clinking sound.

"That's...wonderful, I'm so happy you think so," he says. “Anyway, how much is it?" He pulls out his wallet, opening it only to see no money. He swears he hasn't spent a dime recently, and he took money out of the ATM just the other day. He opens it again frantically, hoping his eyesight has failed him again. Nothing.

"Oh no, dear, for you—it's free.”

Harry's head snaps up, feeling like a deer caught in headlights. "I couldn't possibly accept this," he insists, though it rings false. His thoughts curdle at the thought of parting with the ring. _Mine_ , a tiny voice in his head says, and Harry finds himself agreeing. He doesn’t have any money, apparently, so it’s just as well. And she’s offering.

"No, no, I insist. Please," she says, and here, her voice thins even further, worn like used cloth, "do an old woman a kindness and take it." 

It doesn’t take Harry more than a second before the decision is made. 

”Okay. I will." 

She smiles, once, her crooked, yellowing teeth showing. Harry mirrors her smile, awkward, and begins to walk away. He can’t help but feel her eyes on his back. 

Just before he disappears behind another booth, the sounds of the market returning to him, Harry looks back at her. 

She's still watching. 

Looking down at his hand, Harry twists the ring around his finger. It's beautiful, and the ruby catches the light just right. Bulky too. His middle finger is likely the only one that would be able to carry its weight without getting too sore. 

Harry spends so long admiring his ring that, when he pulls his attention away from it, he doesn't know where he is anymore. It’s dim, and smoke drifts above his head, swirling like a storm. He’s still in the market, of course, and there are still a lot of people, but none he recognises. There isn't a generous butcher, or a creepy fortune-teller, or even the old woman with the jewellery and haunting eyes. All there is are rows of booths, selling things he won't buy, and people he will never meet. The tarp above their heads is dark and no light breaks through. He doesn't even know what time it is, he's been in here for so long. 

Had he seen her before? What about him? 

His breath quickens, and he has to lean against a wooden pole. The air here is thick like the smoke above them, corrosive, and it burns Harry’s lungs, scorches his oesophagus. 

"Harry! Where the hell are you?" He barely hears it at first, the shouting, too busy trying to work out where he is, how to get his breathing under control, but soon the call is deafening, like an alarm after a deep sleep. "Harry! Come on! _Harry_!” 

He sees her walking a few booths down, her flaming hair whipping around her face as she combs through the aisles. A desperate smile breaks out over Harry's face, and he shouts her name in return. "Ginny!" He cries, and she turns to him. "I'm here!" 

"Oh, God! Finally!" She yells, oblivious to the annoyed eyes turned her way. "I've been looking everywhere for you." She grips his arms as she nears him, her eyes searching his face. He doesn't know why and tries to pull away, but her hands don't budge. 

"You have?”

" _Yes _," she stresses, levelling him with another look. "Where've you been?"__

__"Here and there. I passed this barbeque place, actually, and they were selling chicken kebabs for fifty cents apiece! Can you believe it? A bargain if I've ever seen one."_ _

__Harry grins, proud._ _

__"Where's your stick then?"_ _

__He looks down at his hands, noting the lack of a stick. He looks back up at Ginny. "I don't know. Probably dropped it," he explains, but she isn't listening. Her eyes are focused on his left hand, which she's taken into her own. Without the pressure on his arms, he feels almost weightless._ _

__"Harry—what's this?"_ _

__"A ring?"_ _

__She looks like she's holding herself back from rolling her eyes. "No, I mean, why do you have a gaudy ring on?"_ _

__"Oh. Uh, a woman gave it to me.”_ _

__"A woman..." she enunciates "...gave it to you. Do you know why?"_ _

__"How am I supposed to know? Anyway, you said you were looking for me." His eyes light up. "Has the hotel sorted out the issue already?"_ _

__She gives him another one of those looks like she doesn't know what language he's speaking. "Already? Harry—it's been over an hour since you disappeared.”_ _

__”Oh."_ _

__It hasn't felt nearly that long since he split off from the others. Harry swears it's only been a few minutes, maybe fifteen. He directs his gaze upwards, forgetting the tarp blocking his view of the sky, and pictures the sun setting behind the horizon. The day can't have passed him by so quickly._ _

__"Should we go then?"_ _

__She nods once, short._ _

__The journey back to the others is silent, at least between the two of them. Everyone else appears to be having the time of their lives, jesting and yelling out about their wares, a few of them hidden behind the smoke. It feels as if nothing's changed in the time he ventured off into this place. Ginny hasn't changed, her hair still bright and fiery. Though she seemed cross with him when she found him, and even now, her back tense as she walks through groups of people, Harry hot on her heels, she gives off a feeling that she doesn't want to talk to him. He wants to reach out and take her hand, but he doesn’t. He can’t._ _

__The silence persists._ _

__They reach the entrance, and to Harry’s delight, the sun is sitting high in the sky, not even at mid-day._ _

__Curiously, it isn't just the others they stumble upon. A woman stands next to them, tall and slender, her curly black hair piled on top of her head. She appears to be talking to everyone—Hermione, who sits on a worn wooden bench, three books piled in her lap; Ron, a sandwich held loosely in his hands; and Neville, who's sitting confined on the edge of the seat._ _

__From over the mysterious woman's shoulder, Hermione's wide, brown eyes connect with his._ _

__The books are plopped onto Ron's lap. "Harry!" She yells, standing from her seat and striding over to him. She may be shorter than him, but she’s still plenty intimidating when she wants to be. "Where have you been?" Her voice is shrill, in the way it gets when she's stressed or angry. He’s pretty sure she's both right now._ _

__Before he can open his mouth to respond, Ginny's answering for him._ _

__"He was wandering about. I found him lost near the east side of the market.”_ _

__Oh._ _

__So that's where he was._ _

__As Hermione yells at him, Harry's eyes wander to the woman. Now that he can see her face, he understands why Ron was less interested in his sandwich than he would usually be. The woman is pretty, beautiful even. Her face is unobscured by her hair, which is held up by a white headscarf printed with black roses. She looks like a member of the aristocracy, what with her thin, dark eyebrows, high cheekbones and pointed chin. Though she’s dressed rather casually, and on her hip rests a small bag of groceries._ _

__"Hello," she says to him in a nice-sounding accent. French, maybe. They are in Louisana after all._ _

__"Hi," Harry says in reply, punctuating it with a little wave._ _

__"Oh! I completely forgot." Hermione perks up, her anger dissipating in the blink of an eye. She steps out of the way so that Harry and the woman are facing each other properly. "Harry, this is Bella Lestrange. Bella, Harry Potter."_ _

__"A pleasure," Bella says, her accent making the words roll off her tongue like silk. Harry, for lack of anything better to do, nods and smiles awkwardly, giving her another wave. Behind him, Ginny snorts._ _

__"Bella was just telling us about her boss..." Hermione says, and the woman carries on for her._ _

__"Yes. I work at a house on L'île d'argent, or the Isle of Silver," she says. "It's in a bayou not far from here. I overheard your friends talking about the flood at the hotel you were planning to stay and I thought that it'd be a nice idea for all of you to come see the island."_ _

__Ron’s glaring at Harry, or at least he thinks he is. His eyes are squinty and his face has started to redden like his hair. It cuts through him, so he turns back to the two women._ _

__Hermione starts speaking again. "I wasn't sure about it at first, Harry, what with everything I had planned. But _then_ Bella mentioned the history behind the island. It was inhabited by an explorer called Gellert Grindelwald. It’s said that the island was named after him because of his silver eyes and hair." _ _

__“That’s brilliant," Harry says, thought his friend continues on as if he never opened his mouth._ _

__"I thought it was all so fascinating, and when Bella offered to let us accompany her back, I _had_ to accept!" _ _

__"Only when I'm finished shopping, of course." She gestures to her paper bag and smirks teasingly._ _

__Hermione nods her head, enthusiastic in the face of new knowledge, and retreats to Ron to collect her books. Bella walks away, parting the crowd of people around her like Moses did the Red Sea, and as she passes Harry, she says: "I'll see you soon, then."_ _

She doesn’t take very much time at all, and soon, they’re all climbing back into the van, Ron and Hermione in the front, and Ginny, Harry and Neville in the back. Hermione has taken over the wheel this time, though Harry doesn’t trust her not to crash them into one of the century-old homes lining the narrow streets. She’s practically buzzing with excitement, her hair standing on its own.

Normally, she’s an excellent driver and Harry has never needed to worry before. But that was before she’d gotten her hands on a mysterious island off the coast of Louisiana. Harry’s sure that Hermione would forgo any road safety laws if it got her to the Isle of Silver faster.

No one else seems to think similarly, however, because they all strap in without complaint—not even Ron, the largest complainer about Hermione’s driving among them. As if to spit in Harry’s face, Neville looks like he might take another nap in the back, his trusty floral-printed pillow situated comfortably under his head. Do they not remember the end of year twelve, when Hermione drove through three yellow lights and didn’t even slow down for a stop sign because she wanted to maximise her study time? Harry had held onto his seat for dear life that day.

Regardless, they settle down in their seats and watch as Bella steps into her old, cherry red car. She waves in her rearview mirror and Hermione waves back.

They’re off.

New Orleans passes them by, buildings and people blurring until Harry can’t make out their individual features anymore. He reckons Hermione’s hitting the mid-seventies.

It’s as they’re making it out of the city that Ginny rolls down one of the windows. A rush of air hits Harry in the face, warm from the summer heat. His face feels hot and flushed, and he brings his hand up to press it against his forehead. The skin there is warm—if he looked at a mirror would the skin there be pink and blushing?

The drive to the ferry that would take them across the water is long, and Harry’s eyes have begun to hurt from staring out of the window, the brightness of the sun blinding in its intensity. He turns away and rubs at his eyes under his glasses. When he looks back, he sees none of the open fields from before. No, instead the road has been surrounded by thick, darkly coloured foliage and trees. The canopy is so dense the sunlight could not dare to penetrate it.

“How far away is this island?” Harry asks, his eyes remaining glued to the forest. How does anything survive here, without the sun?

“We’re almost there,” Ginny says placatingly. He can hear the crumpling of a map. She must be looking at their location. “It’s right in the next bayou.”

He finally turns his eyes back into the van. Ginny is sitting on the opposite side of the van again. Though this time, she has Neville for company. Next to her sun-tanned freckled flesh, he looks like a corpse weaned slowly from life.

“Is this all you ever hoped for, Hermione?”

“Of course! I can’t wait to see the L’île d’argent,” she says, and her voice only wavers slightly over the foreign name. “I wonder how her boss will react when we arrive.”

Oh, yeah. Him. Bella only briefly mentioned her boss, and all she did was give a name: Mr Riddle. He must be rich if he owns an island, and if his choice of staff is anything to go by, a collector of beautiful things.

Through the windscreen, the end of the road appears. He feels it underneath him, the transition from smooth asphalt to gravel. Bella waves her hand outside her window, and then Harry sees a small boathouse, and next to it, a clear white ferry boat that rocks lightly in the water.

A man is working on it.

“Miss Lestrange!” He calls out as they drive onto the bridge of the ferry. It’s muffled, though Harry can hear the warm southern lilt in his voice through the open window. “You’ve brought some company with you!”

“Certainly, Peter! They’ve come to see the plantation!” Bella says in reply.

“Ah, here to distract Mr Riddle then.”

Bella laughs delightfully.

Hermione stops the van, and Harry rocks a bit. From here he can see the bright blue of the water as it swashes around the boat.

“Just as well,” Peter says, smiling jovially. “The Master does enjoy having visitors.” He walks towards Hermione’s window, and from his spot inside the car, Harry can see his watery eyes and vaguely rat-like features. He wears a plain button-down t-shirt and taupe trousers. “You have a good time now, won’t you?”

Hermione nods. “We’re planning on it.”

Peter chuckles.

He crosses the boat to a side with the gate, bowing officially. “Ladies first!” He announces, stretching his arm out to his left.

At his direction, Bella drives her car into position on the deck, and Hermione follows suit until they’ve parked side-by-side.

Everyone piles out of the van as Peter vanishes up the stairs, into a small room with the steering wheel. His footsteps echo off the metal steps, and a ringing metallic sound.

Bella walks over to them. “The trip won’t be very long,” she explains, looking at him from the corner of her eye. In the sunlight, her grey irises glitter like diamonds. “At most, twenty minutes.”

“That’s wonderful! I can barely contain myself,” Hermione exclaims, peering around the muggy bayou like the island is hiding behind a tree. And if it is, he can’t see it—all there is are trees and bog. At the very least, the sky isn’t hidden behind a canopy anymore. The odd bird flies overhead, their squawks accompanied by the lap of the river against the side of the ferry.

From the room, Peter yells at them to come up with him to better see the bayou. Everyone heads up, their footsteps ringing against the metal. Harry ignores their calls for him to follow, instead moving towards the railing. In the reflection of Bella’s car window, he sees red dusting his cheeks.

They forget about him quickly, and soon he’s left alone—with only the water for company. It churns around the ferry, its depths too deep and dark for Harry to see through. Turbid bubbles float atop the surface. Harry feels like he could fall in, his body tilted over the railing, headfirst. It would be so _easy_. His friends are preoccupied with whatever Peter and Bella are telling them about the island; they wouldn’t notice if he plunged beneath the surface, the place his body once preoccupied empty. And by the time they do, he’d already be too far out of their reach.

Gone. Just like that.

“Don’t fall in! Alligators hunt in these waters!” Peter shouts. And sure enough, partially hidden beneath a blanket of fog, Harry spots a large animal resting by the bank of the river, its large, reptilian hide blending in well with the environment. The only thing giving it away are its beady amber eyes, piercing through the fog as they watch him. The mangled corpse of an unlucky animal rests half-sunken in the mud next to it. Unbidden, Harry instinctively takes a step back, his hand coming up to clasp his locket.

He turns his gaze away from the water—so close, so easy, so final—to everyone else.

Neville and Hermione look at him, concerned as if they’re a split second from rushing down to him. He chuckles and waves them off, making for the stairs. It wouldn’t do to kill them with worry before they even reach the island.

Halfway up the steps, he gives the dark river one last glance.

He wonders how the water would feel against his burning skin. A cool balm to the heat. Would it save them?

Up in the cabin, Harry hears the end of Peter’s story.

“—the pirates used this bayou to hide from the law. They knew only a fool would come lookin’ up in here.”

“And Gellert Grindelwald was one of those pirates?” Hermione asks.

Peter inclines his head. “Him and Albus Dumbledore.”

“Albus Dumbledore?”

Harry enters the small room, though no one’s eyes avert from Peter’s figure.

“His first mate, his partner-in-crime. Rumour has it the two were intimate and used the bayou to hide their love.” He grins wryly, as if looking back on an old memory, one with people he knows will never speak again. In the shadow cast by the trees, his eyes look like the water. “Of course, it’s only a rumour. They were the most infamous of them all, and no one dared speak up against them.”

Hermione looks about ready to ask him a million more questions, but before she can even open her mouth, the trees part to reveal an island in the distance. It’s big—bigger than Harry expected, and its coast opens up to greet them. Only, as they get closer, the sound of the boat cutting through the water like a torrent in his ears, he sees the blanket of trees covering the coastline, so thick Harry's eyes can’t pierce it.

“L’île d’argent, dead ahead.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> tw: unhealthy relationships, mental illness, suicide idealisation, non-graphic descriptions of a dead animal
> 
> 0-o-0 bella's kinda cool non (and yes i made her sexy what abt it)
> 
> aksidcjskjx i hope u enjoyed this chapter! there was. a lot packed into this so im sorry if it was a little -dense- but if u enjoy that kinda stuff then !! im glad B)
> 
> i want to have it all posted by the end of the year, and considering i have the whole outline written and im feeling very inspired, i should be able to do it. but dont hold me to that, i have a lot of other commitments rn lmao
> 
> this was edited w the free grammarly website and my Big Brain™, so any mistakes are my own. all concrit/critique is highly welcome. again hope u enjoyed! expect more soon :D


	2. blurry mirrors

They dock at a narrow, rickety jetty looking to be on its last leg. Ginny yells when she spots it, never a big fan of being on the water. It connects to a road that leads them into a dense forest, similar to the bayou back on the mainland. The road is scattered with dappled sunlight, and above their heads, up in the canopy, the sound of high birdsong greets them. Harry can’t imagine it at nighttime, everything faded to black, unseeing eyes looking back at them through the darkness. Quickly, everyone gets back into their vehicles. The van roars to life beneath their feet as Bella takes off down the road, shouting her goodbyes to Peter, who sees them off. 

Peter and his boat disappear from view, leaving only the forest and their guide. The smell of the sea doesn’t linger on the wind. It has been replaced with dewy grass and mud, a muggy sort of heat that sticks to Harry’s skin.

Hermione is driving again, following Bella’s red car, and Ron is turned towards them, his torso half-twisted in his seat. The glare from before has seemingly vanished, a half-smile settled on his face instead.

“So, any idea how long it’ll be until we get to this plantation?” He asks and looks to Ginny and her map. She shakes her head, frowning.

“No idea. This island doesn’t even have any clear roads. There’s only the dock, and we left that ten minutes ago.” She points to a small dot on a blob labelled _Isle of Silver_ , and indeed, it's Peter’s dock. The only marking on the island; everything else just a dull shade of green. Harry’s eyes dark outside of the window. It’s nothing compared to the real thing.

“What—nothing?” Neville says in disbelief as he comes up from his claimed place in the back of the van, blond hair mused from sleep. As he climbs down from his spot, Harry cannot help but lean away slightly. The alcohol on Neville’s breath makes his nose scrunch up.

“Yep. I guess all we can do is wait,” Ginny says, though it’s all for naught, as a plantation is revealed. There are crimson-red peppers and a house gleaming white like a beacon. Harry’s eyes are glued to it from the moment he sees it. He’s not alone. Even Hermione and Ron stop their bickering for one second to take it in. 

They cross a small, stout bridge separating the plantation from the forest, and the transition from wood to dirt is jarring enough that Harry’s hair stands on end. 

Bella and Hermione park in front of the manor house. Everyone files out quickly. It’s bright, the sun painting everything in stark relief, and his eyes dart dance from one thing to the next, trying to take it all in. The house is even more beautiful than he first thought, with a flawless ivory colonnade and long veranda. It has large windows and a red roof. The air here, Harry notices, is warmer than back on the mainland, and thick with something he cannot name. A spice, possibly from the peppers, but sweet. 

He’s distracted from his musings by the appearance of a man standing at the front of the house. He is tall and pale, and his dark hair is neatly coiffed. As they get closer, Bella leading them, Harry cannot help but admire the severe cut of his cheekbones. 

“Mr Riddle!” Bella says when they are close enough for Harry to count the buttons on the man’s shirt. Mr Riddle, their apparent host, turns away from his overseeing of the gardener—a dour-faced man with long, inky black hair—to regard them.

“Bellatrix,” he says, his voice carrying a rich Southern lilt. It’s nothing quite like Harry has heard before. The man’s eyes trace critically over his friends before coming to stop on Harry himself. He startles slightly. “You’ve brought us company. I thought that you had only gone grocery shopping.”

“I did. But I couldn’t help but overhear these people discussing interesting things to see in Louisiana.“

“And so you thought they might like to see my house,” he finishes succinctly, eyes flashing in amusement. His lips quirk up into a small smile, and Harry has never been so fascinated with another person’s left dimple. 

“And what a beautiful house it is!” Hermione’s hair bounces in her excitement as she steps forward to shake Mr Riddle’s hand. He bends down to place a chaste kiss on the back of her hand. Harry can picture her, bug-eyed, at the uncommon show of chivalry, and chokes back a laugh. “My name is Hermione Granger. My friend’s names are”—here she points to everyone—“Ron and Ginny Weasley, Neville Longbottom, and Harry Potter.” At the sound of his name, the man looks at him again. 

“My name is Tom Riddle, if you weren’t already aware, and I am the owner of this island. I’m sure that you have already met Peter Pettigrew, the ferryman. My employee’s names are Bellatrix Lestrange, my housekeeper, and Sev—“

He is cut off by the sound of screaming and a crash. Alarmed, they all spin around to see Neville on the ground, a pushed-over cart on his right, surrounded by smashed pots filled with indigo aconite and violet heather. Like bruises, they stick out against the sun-bleached driveway.

Ginny starts to rush over to him, but she barely takes a step before Neville is throwing himself at her, bellowing, “Snake!”, at the top of his lungs. It is more energy than Harry has seen from his friend in days. He sees the cause of it a few moments later, as a serpent slithers out from under the upturned cart. 

Harry’s hand grips his locket with a clink, stepping back until he hits a solid frame. Cold hands, cold enough to bleed through his shirt, catch him around the waist. Harry looks up only to see the devastatingly handsome face of Tom Riddle but doesn’t get any time to apologise before the gardener appears.

“My flowers!” He shouts, a glower fixed so firmly on his face he must have been born with it. He is dressed in worker’s clothes, beige and faded, gloves covering his hands, and his black, oily hair hangs lankly in front of his face. “What have you _done_ , you dunderhead!” He storms over to the flowers and begins to pick them up. Neville, who is cowering behind Ginny, whimpers at the man’s glare.

The scene rings hollow in Harry’s mind. He can see a younger him in the place of Neville, shrunken in the dirt, and Petunia in the gardener’s, her tone promising a long time spent in the cupboard. Harry had liked gardening because it got him out of the cupboard, that nasty place in the dark. remembers the feeling of sunlight against his skin, the relief he felt breathing in clean air. Like salvation.

Harry realises belatedly that Mr Riddle’s hands are still settled scorching on his waist when the man addresses everyone again. “As I was saying, this is Severus Snape, my new gardener. Severus,” he says, addressing the man personally, “I’m sure that our guest meant no disrespect. After all, Nagini is a formidable creature, and lesser men have been felled by her gaze alone.” 

A hand leaves Harry’s waist to gesture to the snake, apparently named Nagini. She is quite a sight, Harry can admit, long and elegant, with emerald scales that reflect off the sunlight. _From a distance, of course_ , Harry thinks as he jerks out from Mr Riddle’s grasp when Nagini begins to climb steadily up the man’s leg. 

Harry makes sure he is far enough away that he is standing near Ron before he looks back at their host, only to blanche when he notices Mr Riddle’s gaze is trained on where Harry’s locket sits on his chest. It doesn’t waver, not even as Mr Riddle’s hand strokes down Nagini’s back, her body splayed lazily across his broad shoulders. They make quite the picture; two predators at ease among prey.

“When was the house built?” Hermione chimed in suddenly, drawing his attention away from Mr Riddle.

The man tilts his head towards the house, and the move exposes the tantalising, ivory skin of his neck. 

“It has been in my family for generations. It was a pepper plantation. Some of the hottest peppers in Louisiana grow on this island.”

“Oh, really?” Ginny pipes up. Harry can recognise the challenging glint in her eyes. In every state they’ve visited, she has tried out at least one outrageous food. Back in Texas, she demolished a twenty patty hamburger in sixteen minutes and got herself a spot on the bar’s ‘wall of fame’. Harry’s stomach had protested at the sight of it, but she was undeterrable. The fact that she beat Ron made it all the more impressive at the time.

Mr Riddle seems to recognise—and accept—the challenge for what it is if the smirk is anything to go by. “Yes, it is. I don’t think I have ever met someone who could withstand its heat.”

“Well, you’ve just met her.”

Hermione rolls her eyes from her place next to Harry. 

“I’m sure,” he says, but he sounds mocking. Ginny gives him a dirty look. “Now. I won’t keep you any longer from the house, so please follow me.” He ascends the white wood stairs, and turns back to them a step from the oakwood veranda. “Please refrain from touching anything that is not the furniture. Most of the items inside the house are priceless.”

He casts them all one meaningful look before opening the doors to the manor and stepping inside, Nagini swaying in his arms. Hermione follows him up the steps quickly, Neville next, leaving the rest to amble after them. 

Ron turns to Bella. 

“Sorry for the damage, by the way. Neville’s easily spooked.”

She smiles charmingly at him. 

“It’s no problem. Severus is always in a mood, and it’s nothing he cannot fix.”

Just before the front doors close, Harry glances back at the gardener who is muttering darkly to himself. He lifts his head and they make eye contact. He is glaring, definitely, but there is something desperate in his eyes, anguished like he is watching the mouth of hell open and swallow them whole.

Then the heavy wooden doors shut behind him.

Putting Severus’ dark gaze away, Harry takes in the house. The first thing he notices is how cool the air is. Outside, it was rather muggy—but in here, he can’t feel the heat at all. Inside, away from the sounds of nature where the birds sing, all is silent apart from the clacking of their footsteps on the sleek wood floorboards. 

“Follow me,” Bella says, guiding them farther into the house. Around them, tasteful, clearly old furniture and artifacts have been placed along the walls. Paintings of people Harry has never seen before, shiny baubles that are probably expensive, delicate glass vases full of snapdragons and aconite and all sorts of fauna. The vaulted ceiling and tall windows allow plenty of light to fill the hallway, but Harry finds himself all too aware of the long, creeping shadows cast by the décor that obscure the finely etched, excessive details in the wood panelling along the walls. He creeps closer to Ginny, and her weighted presence at his side helps him to avoid staring for too long, instead letting himself be carried away by the grandness of the house. 

Eventually, Bella leads them into a lavish sitting room, where Mr Riddle is talking to Hermione about something or other. Neville has sunken into the upholstery in the corner. Ginny and Ron go to join him immediately, and Bella announces that she will be back with lemonade. 

Harry lets himself wander around the room, trailing his fingers along a wall of filled bookshelves, their leather covers cracked and aged, untouched for years. His fingertips leave a trail in the dust. Marking. He passes by a black leather-bound book held inside of a glass case, the name _Tom M. Riddle_ printed in bronze on the bottom-right corner. The leather is supple which Harry thinks odd, especially when compared to the other texts tucked away into the walls of the room. _Maybe it belonged to an ancestor_ , he thinks, already drifting away from the case.

He finds himself in front of an ashy, marble fireplace, staring at a portrait.

In it, he can see four people, all dressed in white. A red-haired woman smiling, a man with his arm curled around her waist, another man whose watchful eyes glitter like rubies, and a woman, her curls bound and black as night. They are standing around a fire that, even as Harry rubs his eyes beneath his frames, seems to flicker dangerously in the portrait frame, the flames licking their vulnerable faces. 

And in those faces, he sees a reflection of his present. “Mr Riddle?” He calls, and their host walks towards him, his gait unworried and relaxed. He passes by a window, and the sun highlights his timeless sort of handsomeness, like Mr Riddle could be both twenty five and fifty. Then he comes to stand by Harry, and his muscles seize as Mr Riddle’s arm brushes his own.

“Please, Harry, call me Tom.”

“Tom. Why do those people look like us?”

And they do. Above the mantle that is adorned with blushing camellias, one of them falling perfectly over the Tom-lookalike’s outstretched hand, the portrait stares back at Harry. The red-haired woman looks like she could be his late mother, or maybe Ginny, even, and the man with his arm around her waist Harry’s doppelgänger. The other man looks exactly like Tom, barring the severe red eyes, and the other beguiling woman could be Bella’s twin sister for all that they resemble each other. The flickering red flames only highlight these similarities, and the more Harry watches for them, the more he finds. The curl of their smiles, the colours of their skin, their hair, their teeth, the length of their legs, _everything_. It’s all the same, the same, the same.

Tom doesn’t seem to recognise these discrepancies. He doesn’t even look at the portrait, eyes feasting on Harry’s face as if he could not find the same one staring back at him above the fireplace! 

The locket clutched subconsciously in Harry’s hand burns him, its sharp ridges searing into his flesh painfully. He lets it go, brings his hand up to his face, though the skin is not charred. A laugh bubbles up in his throat, unbidden, and it fills the empty room. 

He’s fine.

“Harry?”

He’s fine, he’s fine, everything is perfectly fine. He’s not burnt, it’s fine.

“Are you alright? Would you like some lemonade?”

“I’m fine,” he says and snaps his head up to meet Tom’s pleasant eyes. Brown, not red. Not the same. “I would love some.” 

The man nods serenely, placing a hand at a respectful height on his back and steering him away from the painting, towards the couch where his friends are throwing banter around with Bella, sipping on her drink. She is regaling them a story when he and Tom cross the length of the room, past towering bookshelves and light, open windows and glittering baubles. Harry gets handed a chilled glass, and he drinks eagerly, the coolness of it a balm to the overbearing heat from outside.

Ginny turns to them, Tom specifically, her blue eyes alight with that same challenge from before. He knows what she is going to say before she says it.

“Do you have any of those peppers?”

Tom nods, his hand still positioned on Harry’s back, and addresses Bella. “Would you show Ginny to the kitchens?” He asks her, and she nods. Harry’s friends have all turned their attention to him and Tom, the story forgotten. Ginny springs up from her seat and, in a moment of impulse, Harry elects to follow them.

Tom’s hand, which has since migrated to Harry’s upper arm, tightens painfully before letting go. He smiles charmingly, canines peeking out from the corners of his mouth. Harry thinks him handsome, the sunlight creating an aureole around his head of brown curls.

“Of course. Bella.”

She leads both him and Ginny on a dizzying journey out of the parlour, past a gaping window through which Harry can see Severus toiling in the gardens, down a corridor, through a narrow hallway and into the kitchens. She points them towards a walk-in pantry with a smile and leaves the room. 

Ginny cackles.

“This is going to be easy.”

Taking him by the arm, she pulls him to the pantry, their shoes tapping against the azure-tiled floor, her grin taking up half of her face. Harry doesn’t see the appeal of guzzling down a spicy red pepper, but he lets her drag him through the doorway and into a packed pantry. Food spills over the shelves; cured meats, full bunches of parsley, fragrant spices, all contained within this tiny room. The scent assaults his delicate nose, yet Ginny carries on undeterred.

She locates the jar of peppers easily, and she lets go of his arm to pry it open. The lid pops off with a shout, deafening in the silence of the kitchen, and its contents jiggle. 

A pepper is taken and held out to Harry.

“Try it with me?” She asks him, smirking teasingly, and his reservations clash with the desire to please her like a sledgehammer meeting solid plaster. He wants to say no, the word balanced on the tip of his tongue, but it falls to the wayside, his throat catching on it.

He takes it—wet, soft, deceptively harmless—from her. She procures another one swiftly, and together they bring them to their lips. Just as the pepper touches his teeth, Harry feels himself fall, and before his body even hits the floor, the bright pantry goes black.

_There is only white. White as far as the eye can see, a great absence of colour and shadow. Pale lotus petals fall from above, though when Harry goes to grab one, his hand phases through it. He doesn't know where he is. Before he was in the kitchen, he and Ginny were about to eat red peppers, and now. Nothing. He feels weightless, without worry, his friends so far behind him._

_“Leave,” a voice says, low and powerful._

_He doesn’t know where it came from. He doesn’t care enough to find out._

_“Leave!” It says, more forceful this time, though Harry’s hand barely twitches. He wants to stay here forever, away from his friends and the engagement and his Godfathers. Would they be here? Has he died?_

_As if summoned by his thoughts, two men appear in front of him. They are not his Godfathers. No, they are strangers, dressed in strange clothes. Maybe they’re hiding from him?_

_“Who are you?” Harry asks._

_“My name is Gellert Grindelwald, Harry Potter,” the blond man answers, his brown and blue, heterochromatic eyes critical. “This is Albus Dumbledore.” He points to the auburn-haired man next to him, whose face is grave. “We have come to you to warn you of a great danger.”_

_“Why should I care? I’m dead, aren’t I?”_

_“You are not dead,” Albus says. “Simply drifting.”_

_“Then why am I here? Where am I?”_

_“We cannot answer your first question, I’m afraid. However, your second question we can. A place that should not exist, and yet it does,” he says, his partner remaining silent. A petal falls between them, and before it reaches the ground, it disappears._

_“What does that mean?”_

_Albus’s eyes twinkle. It looks queer on a face so solemn._

_“So many questions. But I fear that we cannot tell you. All you need to know is that you must get away from the island, Harry. Forces beyond you are at work.”_

_They turn away, slow, and vanish into the white fog._

His head is cradled in someone’s lap, their hand smoothing down his hair. A kiss is placed on his temple.

He opens his eyes.

Ginny’s face appears above him, and as his eyes readjust to the dimness of the room, her hand on his hair stills.

“Harry?” She asks, tentative, trembling.

“Yeah?”

“Harry!” 

Someone—Hermione—yells, enclosing him in a rib-crushing embrace. His friend’s bushy hair tickles his face, and her chin digs into his chest. He brings his arms around her back, aware of the noise around his head.

“You’re all right,” Hermione whispers, so quiet he’s likely the only one that heard her.

“Why wouldn’t I be?”

He is pushed up into a sitting position. Her face, outraged and incredulous, comes into view. “You fainted out of nowhere, Harry. We were all sitting in the parlour when Ginny’s yelling brought us here.”

Head spinning, he grasps at the only question he can think of. “How long was I out for?”

This time, Tom answers. Now that Harry can see where he is and who is present, he notices Ron and Neville standing near the door, Bella nowhere to be seen. “Several minutes,” he explains. “Your friend told us you didn’t hit your head on your way down, so we know you don’t have a concussion. I’ve had Bella prepare you a room so that you may lie down for a while. She will show you to it. Everyone else—” he doesn’t look away from Harry “—perhaps we might make our way back to the parlour.” 

They file out, some more reluctant than others. 

“We’ll come check up on you later, all right?”

He nods wearily at Ginny, watches her leave out of sight. Bella enters past her and extends her hand to Harry.

“Come, Mr Potter. Your room is on the second floor.”

As they exit the kitchen, Harry spots out of the corner of his eye a word gashed into the cream wall: 

_LEAVE._

He blinks, and it’s gone. 

They don’t speak on the way to his room, which gives him room to _think_. He barely remembers what happened when he _fainted_ , only two men and a vague warning to leave. Leave. How is he supposed to leave when he’s being taken to a room to rest, and his head feels close to exploding? Harry reckons if he took a step without Bella’s guiding hand against his hip he would collapse like a building stripped of its foundations.

It doesn’t matter what he reckons or not, because Bella opens a door and leads him to a large, queen size bed. Harry sits heavily on the mattress, vision blurry. Like looking through an unfocused camera lens, he sees what he thinks are red, wilting poppies settled in a vase on a wooden dresser and a massive window that lets soft, white light into the room.

“This is your room, Mr Potter,” Bella says faintly; he feels like he’s underwater. The light disappears. “I will be back soon to check on you.”

The door clicks shut and Harry forgets exactly why he needs to leave, drifting off to sleep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> tw: hallucinations
> 
> hiiiiiii :D its been a while. like two months, would u believe it. the reason its taken so long to update is bc of some difficulties getting myself to write the chapter bc my brain doesn't like me- why this is so short, sorry abt that- and bc my beta had to leave the project. which is fine! shit happens lol 
> 
> anyway hope u enjoyed. and I'll try to get chapter three out soon, though again, no promises. its gonna be massive! I fused two already big chapters together bc it didnt make any sense to keep them separate, so ur looking at possibly 8-10k. here's to hoping lmao. 
> 
> hope uve all been well :D


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